


Undercurrent

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Category: Uncharted (Video Games), Uncharted 4 - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Boxing & Fisticuffs, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9523835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: In the wake of his his brother's marriage, Samuel Drake may be spiraling the smallest, tiniest bit out of control.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Part of an Uncharted 4 Victorian AU (shhh just come) that [JillDrawBlog](http://jilldrawblog.tumblr.com) came up with. I am extremely weak to that action.

The crack of a fist across his jaw sends Sam stumbling backwards, the roar of the crowd indistinguishable from the rush of blood in his veins. He shakes his head and spits red, but his opponent is closing in and Sam puts his arm up to block the next blow. It’s not  _ decent _ , this kind of bare-knuckle brawling; it’s barely honorable, but it’s exactly what Sam needs tonight after dinner with his brother and new sister-in-law.

It’s not that he’s not happy for Nathan. He is, really; Elena is a spirited, lovely woman, even if she doesn’t hold the highest opinion of Sam. (Which is - all right, if he’s honest that’s probably more accurate than Sam would like to admit; but Sam tries not to be honest with himself all that often.) They’re just so  _ insufferably  _ happy together, and Sam is the worst kind of brother for resenting Nathan’s good fortune, which is why he smiled all through dinner tonight and afterward made his way to the kind of underground club decent members of Society aren’t supposed to know about, much less frequent.

Samuel Drake, however, is a little removed from being a decent member of Society. Sam blocks, and returns the blow aimed at his head with interest. His opponent staggers and goes down, and Sam waits to see if he’ll get up again.

He doesn’t. Sam lets the roar of the crowd wash over him, breathing through the blood in his mouth.

The unconscious man is dragged out of the ring, and at Sam’s nod the referee - to use the term loosely - turns to the crown for the next volunteer. The young man who steps up is short and compact, unbuttoning his jacket with a cocky smirk. He drops it to the ground with the air of someone who’s never worried about laundry, and if Sam hadn’t already pegged him for a Society son out slumming that would have done it.

Sam snorts. He’s seen this before; hell, he could have  _ been _ this kid, although admittedly the Morgan estate had never rivaled the Adler fortune. But if the Adler heir wants to play adventurer, he’s come to the wrong place; Sam’s not going to hesitate to hit that face just because it’s listed in the Society Register. Sam figures two or three solid blows, and Adler will be down in the dirt like the rest of them.

The kid’s fast; he’s got that much going for him, at least. Sam’s no slowpoke, but Adler makes him feel positively lead-footed, feinting and bouncing from foot to foot like they’re at a goddamned public ball. He’s clearly been trained in “the art of fisticuffs,” as Sam’s contemporaries uptown would put it; Sam can read that club-style a mile away. Can play to it, too, which means that while Adler is deflecting Sam’s right fist Sam’s left elbow is coming up to catch the kid right across the nose.

The kid staggers back, hands flying up to his face. His fingers come away red, and he stares at them in fascination, as if he’s never seen his own blood before. Sam supposes it’s possible that he hasn’t.

Adler rubs his fingers together and looks back up at Sam. There’s a fierce, almost joyful glint in his eyes, and as he settles back into the ready position he actually has the  _ gall _ to motion Sam forward.

Fine. Far be it from Sam to turn down an  _ invitation _ .

The next two hits force Adler backward a few steps, but his eyes are bright and watchful and when Sam goes for the third suddenly the kid just  _ isn’t there _ , and before Sam can regain his footing a pair of precise blows to the kidney buckle Sam’s knees. He just barely manages to avoid catching the incoming knee with his face; it hits his shoulder instead, knocking him flat on his back in the dirt, and Sam can’t tell at all anymore where the roaring in his ears is coming from.

A heavy weight drops onto his stomach, knocking the breath out of him, and Adler’s fist catches him across the temple, blurring his vision. The kid looks about as far as possible from the heir to a grand estate that he is; there’s blood running down his face, his hair shaken loose from that perfect coif and hanging in his eyes. There’s a fierce, almost feral joy in his bared teeth as he raises his fist again, but before he can land the next blow it’s caught by the referee.

“Not while he’s down,” the referee says, and although he pales a little at the look Adler turns on him, he doesn’t let go. “Them’s the rules.”

For a moment it looks like Adler’s going to pull free, rules or no, but then he laughs and relaxes.

“Of course,” he says lightly. “Rules.”

He shifts back off of Sam as the referee retreats, and Sam stares at the ceiling and wheezes for a minute. He waves off help as he slowly gets back to his feet; he may be done for the night but he’ll be damned if he can’t stand on his own. The room tilts ominously as he cautiously makes his way toward the edge of the ring, but he makes it out under his own power and that’s more than most can say. 

The Adler kid is watching him, but he’s welcome to the ring for the rest of the night; Sam’s got nothing to prove to him or anyone else in this room. That’s not why he comes here.

He’s leaning against the building outside, eyes closed and head tipped back against the cool brick, thinking about a cigarette, when he hears footsteps come to a stop in front of him. Even before the smell of expensive cologne hits him, he has a pretty good guess who it is.

“If you want a rematch you’re going to have to wait until next week,” Sam says, opening his eyes. Adler’s jacket is hanging unbuttoned around his chest, and Sam appreciates the view, but he  _ doesn’t _ appreciate the cocky plant of the kid’s hands on his hips.

Adler snorts. “You sure you’re up for that, old man? I’m not the one who limped out of the ring with my tail between my legs.”

_ Old man _ . As if he’s all that much older than this kid - although Sam suddenly  _ feels _ like he is, like he’s decades older than this fresh-faced brat who thinks he owns the world just because his father does, who’s never known hardship or  _ loss _ the way that Sam has.

A lone church bell strikes midnight, the sound splitting the air as Sam fishes a carton of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Pretty sure it’s past your curfew, kid,” he says, drawing one out and pointedly not looking at Adler. “Time for good little boys to run on home.”

Adler slaps the cigarette out of his hand, and before Sam can do much more than look up in outrage he’s being shoved back against the brick. The carton of cigarettes falls from his hand, scattering on the wet cobblestones.

“My name’s not  _ kid _ ,” Adler hisses, and  _ oh _ , that is a sore spot if Sam’s ever heard one. “It’s  _ Rafe _ .”

Sure it is. But if Raphael Adler wants to pretend to be someone he’s not, who is Sam to stand in his way? Sam knows all about reinvention.

And anyway Adl-  _ Rafe _ looks like he’s got something else on his mind, from the way his eyes keep dropping to Sam’s mouth, and Sam’s not averse to that, not averse at all. Sam tries on a smirk, one that grows wider when Rafe’s eyes fix on his lips.

“See something you like,  _ Rafe _ ?” If Rafe hears the extra emphasis he doesn’t show it, eyes flicking back up to Sam’s.

“Shut up,” he snarls, and then his mouth is on Sam’s and this, this Sam can do.

Rafe kisses like he has something to prove, and maybe he does. Sam doesn’t know and doesn’t care; it’s enough for now to get his hands on Rafe’s hips and pull his body flush with Sam’s. Rafe is a burning heat against the chill of the night air, and Sam rolls their hips together, not giving Rafe any room to move away. Rafe breaks off with a gasp, and Sam takes the opportunity to run his teeth down Rafe’s jaw.

“Pretty little rich boy likes to go slumming, hm?” Sam murmurs the words against Rafe’s neck and the kid shudders against him, hips jerking. “Likes to pick fights and then fuck afterward, is that it?”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Rafe hisses. He gets a hand in Sam’s hair and pulls, and when Sam lifts his face Rafe bites down  _ hard  _ on Sam’s bottom lip. Sam doesn’t know if the copper he tastes is fresh or a remnant from the ring but he chases it back into Rafe’s mouth, swallowing a groan. 

Rafe presses close like he’s trying to climb up Sam’s body, so Sam gets a hand on Rafe’s ass to help. He slips a leg between Rafe’s and drags him up it, bracing the kid as Rafe grinds down onto Sam’s thigh. Rafe’s hands are all over Sam’s chest and shoulders, and Sam’s breath hitches as his thumb grazes what’s beginning to be a bruise. Rafe looks up, and then leans down to suck a biting kiss into the tender skin. Sam’s dick jumps and he swears into Rafe’s hair, pleasure and pain mixing until he can’t tell them apart.

But that’s why Sam comes here, isn’t it? To let the ocean roar of the crowd and the narrow focus of the ring pull him away and under, to let the sting of sweat and the aches of forming bruises be the only things that matter. This is good too - this is  _ better _ than good - and Sam lets Rafe’s hands on him and Rafe’s mouth on his fill his senses, the only points of heat in a world gone cold and dark.

“We should move this inside,” Sam murmurs into Rafe’s ear after a while, breath hitching as Rafe sucks a bruise into his neck. “More comfortable.” Rafe makes a considering noise, then bites down. Sam gasps and arches up into him, and Rafe rolls with it, coming up to steal Sam’s breath with a searing kiss that whites out Sam’s brain for a moment.

Then Rafe shifts back, and Sam blinks as the shock of the cold night air invades the space between them, stealing away the warmth Rafe had pressed into him.

“Sorry,” Rafe says with a grin that says he’s clearly not. “You’re going to have to work harder than that if that’s what you want.”

He pats Sam’s cheek twice, dragging a thumb over Sam’s lips, then steps back and adjusts his clothing. He puts one hand in his pocket as he turns to go, the other smoothing through his disheveled hair as he strolls away like he’s not leaving Sam panting and breathless and  _ frustrated _ . He pauses for a minute in the mouth of the alley, illuminated by a street lamp, looking back.

“Next week, you said? I look forward to it.” He sketches out the most irreverent salute Sam has ever seen, and then he’s gone while Sam’s still blinking after him.

Sam laughs, short and breathless at first, and then louder and longer as he slides down the brick, and if it brushes the edge of hysteria there’s no one around to hear it anymore. Sam sits on the cobblestones amid his scattered cigarettes and laughs at himself, at the  _ world _ , because this is just fucking  _ typical _ , isn’t it. Sam fishes out his matches, and the cigarettes are faintly damp but they’re still good, so Sam sits in the alley and smokes and tries to will the tightness in his pants away. He blows a ring up at the stars, asking them silently what he ever did to deserve this.

(He doesn’t ask out loud, though. No sense in asking a question to which you don’t really want the answer.)

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [ThirtySixSaveFiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


End file.
